His manner cleared， like my own. He replied to my remarkswith readiness， and in well-chosen words. Had he much to dothere？ Yes； that was to say， he had enough responsibility tobear； but exactness and watchfulness were what was requiredof him， and of actual work—manual labour—he had next tonone. To change that signal， to trim those lights， and to turnthis iron handle now and then， was all he had to do under thathead. Regarding those many long and lonely hours of which Iseemed to make so much， he could only say that the routine ofhis life had shaped itself into that form， and he had grown usedto it. He had taught himself a language down here，—if onlyto know it by sight， and to have formed his own crude ideasof its pronunciation， could be called learning it. He had alsoworked at fractions and decimals， and tried a little algebra；but he was， and had been as a boy， a poor hand at figures. Wasit necessary for him when on duty always to remain in thatchannel of damp air， and could he never rise into the sunshinefrom between those high stone walls？ Why， that dependedupon times and circumstances. Under some conditions therewould be less upon the Line than under others， and the sameheld good as to certain hours of the day and night. In brightweather， he did choose occasions for getting a little abovethese lower shadows； but， being at all times liable to be calledby his electric bell， and at such times listening for it withredoubled anxiety， the relief was less than I would suppose.
He took me into his box， where there was a fire， a desk foran official book in which he had to make certain entries， atelegraphic instrument with its dial， face， and needles， andthe little bell of which he had spoken. On my trusting that hewould excuse the remark that he had been well educated， and（I hoped I might say without offence） perhaps educated abovethat station， he observed that instances of slight incongruityin such wise would rarely be found wanting among largebodies of men； that he had heard it was so in workhouses， inthe police force， even in that last desperate resource， the army；and that he knew it was so， more or less， in any great railwaystaff. He had been， when young （if I could believe it， sitting inthat hut，—he scarcely could）， a student of natural philosophy，and had attended lectures； but he had run wild， misused hisopportunities， gone down， and never risen again. He had nocomplaint to offer about that. He had made his bed， and he layupon it. It was far too late to make another.
All that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner，with his grave， dark regards divided between me and the fire.
He threw in the word， “Sir，” from time to time， and especiallywhen he referred to his youth，—as though to request me tounderstand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him.
He was several times interrupted by the little bell， and hadto read off messages， and send replies. Once he had to standwithout the door， and display a flag as a train passed， and makesome verbal communication to the driver. In the discharge ofhis duties， I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant，breaking off his discourse at a syllable， and remaining silentuntil what he had to do was done.
In a word， I should have set this man down as one of thesafest of men to be employed in that capacity， but for thecircumstance that while he was speaking to me he twice brokeoff with a fallen colour， turned his face towards the little bellwhen it did NOT ring， opened the door of the hut （which waskept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp）， and looked outtowards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel. On both ofthose occasions， he came back to the fire with the inexplicableair upon him which I had remarked， without being able todefine， when we were so far asunder.
Said I， when I rose to leave him， “You almost make me thinkthat I have met with a contented man.”
（I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead himon.）
“I believe I used to be so，” he rejoined， in the low voicein which he had first spoken； “but I am troubled， sir， I amtroubled.”
He would have recalled the words if he could. He had saidthem， however， and I took them up quickly.
“With what？ What is your trouble？”
“It is very difficult to impart， sir. It is very， very difficult tospeak of. If ever you make me another visit， I will try to tellyou.”
“But I expressly intend to make you another visit. Say， whenshall it be？”
“I go off early in the morning， and I shall be on again at tentomorrow night， sir.”
“I will come at eleven.”
He thanked me， and went out at the door with me. “I’ll showmy white light， sir，” he said， in his peculiar low voice， “till youhave found the way up. When you have found it， don’t callout！ And when you are at the top， don’t call out！”
His manner seemed to make the place strike colder to me，but I said no more than， “Very well.”
“And when you come down to-morrow night， don’t call out！
Let me ask you a parting question. What made you cry， ‘Halloa！
Below there！’ tonight？”
“Heaven knows，” said I. “I cried something to that effect—”
“Not to that effect， sir. Those were the very words. I knowthem well.”
“Admit those were the very words. I said them， no doubt，because I saw you below.”
“For no other reason？”
“What other reason could I possibly have？”
“You had no feeling that they were conveyed to you in anysupernatural way？”
“No.”
He wished me good-night， and held up his light. I walkedby the side of the down Line of rails （with a very disagreeablesensation of a train coming behind me） until I found the path.
It was easier to mount than to descend， and I got back to myinn without any adventure.
Punctual to my appointment， I placed my foot on the firstnotch of the zigzag next night， as the distant clocks werestriking eleven. He was waiting for me at the bottom， withhis white light on. “I have not called out，” I said， when wecame close together； “may I speak now？” “By all means， sir.”